Experimental Film shows first-hand how a first-class concept isn’t enough to carry a novel. Gemma Files is incredibly knowledgeable about film, and it certainly shows. I was not at all surprised to find out she was a film critic and screen-writer in Canada. But it does mean that she falls into the trap of writers with specialisations like this; going into far too much unnecessary, incidental and boring detail about the way the industry works, that they lose sight of the plot, or what makes a story engaging.

The story follows protagonist Lois Cairns as she tries to uncover the mystery behind a woman who may have been Canada’s first female filmmaker. Lois is an out of work film critic, ex-teacher, and mother to an autistic son. While reviewing freelance in Toronto’s underground film scene she embarks on a journey that takes her to derelict mansions, will make her delve deep into Eastern European folklore and come face to face with her own inner demons, as well as outside forces.

The concept for Experimental Film is a strong one. The medium of film has so much potential to create a stirring atmosphere. Film can convey so much within a very short space of time, and if a picture can paint 1000 words, a moving picture can do even more. The disappointment is that the supernatural elements of the novel simply don’t really seem to hold any relevance to the art of film making, other than it being a convenient plot device that the author just happens to know something about. The antagonist as well seems incredibly out of place. Essentially, we have a sun worshiping demi-god who for some reason chooses to manifest in Toronto, a city that never seems to rise about 24 – 27 degrees Celsius, even in the height of summer. The setting, the premise, the antagonist; everything had potential, but the narrative simply didn’t make use of any of them. Files seemed to stick with familiar, rather than appropriate.

Lois Cairns herself was a well-developed character. She was interesting, flawed, relatable with the kinds of insecurities that we can all relate to. Unfortunately, most of her development happened within the first quarter of the novel, meaning that the plot didn’t really get going until half way through the book. Lois’ insecurities, while interesting, weren’t enough to carry the novel’s interest for so long. For a character with clear and obvious mental health issues (dealt in a way that should have been refreshing) who was clearly on the verge of a breakdown when the book started, the characters that surrounded her really seemed to just blindly accept her supernatural experiences. No one seemed to question her in any real depth, which really stopped my suspension of disbelief as there was never any compelling evidence that anything supernatural was occurring, rather than Lois just having a breakdown.

The side characters of Experimental Film fared much worse in their development. Lois’ husband Simon existed to be the perfect supportive partner, her research assistant Safie was just a glorified sounding board, her son Clark (Lois and Clark…believe me, I groaned inwardly at that one) was autistic, which of course was used to create creepy-kid-communing-with-the-supernatural syndrome, which I found equal parts offensive and overdone within the genre, and the minor antagonist Wrob Barney was such an over-the-top caricature of narcissistic unprofessionalism that I simply couldn’t take him seriously. The minor characters were at best, archetypes, at worst, caricatures. They really took away from everything I feel Experimental Film was trying to be.

With poor pacing, far too much unnecessary exposition, a premise that didn’t deliver and a narrative that failed to scare, I must say that Experimental Film was a bit of a disappointment. All the parts were there, but nothing was followed through in a way that could satisfy. Bits and pieces read like poor imitations of other works, like Neil Gaiman’s American Gods mixed with Night Film by Marisha Pessl (another book about film that failed to deliver a satisfying conclusion). If you’d like to know a lot about the Canadian underground film scene, old film stock, and how to get a Canadian Arts grant, then this is for you. Otherwise, there are more satisfying horror novels out there.

On the surface, Ian Mortimer’s The Outcasts of Time has everything an historical novel should have. It was full of sumptuous description, historical accuracy, and a well-developed protagonist used to illustrate his own zeitgeist. It is a shame then that no strength of writing could make up for the one thing that The Outcasts of Time was really lacking. A plot.

Within the first few pages, I was already worried that Ian Mortimer would go the way of so many historians turned novelists, and my worries were ultimately well deserved. The Outcasts of Time gets so caught up in its own historicity that it forgets what it’s actually written for. To tell a story. Instead of a flowing narrative that goes somewhere and means something, instead, we are treated to a set of historical vignettes that read like a morality play for the importance of the study of history. I’m a professional historian, so I’m all for that, but the setup was just so contrived that I caught myself physically rolling my eyes at moments.

I find it difficult to write too much more about the novel because nothing happened. What makes this book great is the way that Mortimer brings the historical periods to life (with the exception of John of Wrayment’s foray into the 19th Century, which was just full of exposition rather than any real sense of time or place), but just giving me a good sense of history isn’t enough. The protagonists skip from day to day, century to century, never really getting to know anyone, or really do anything except give us a snapshot of life in their times. But if I wanted that, I would have read one of Mortimer’s exceptional non-fiction books. His Time Traveller’s Guide series is excellent! But a novel is more than just beautiful prose.

Ian Mortimer’s ultimate aim in writing The Outcasts of Time is summed up by one quote, that is often repeated at the end of the novel:

“The man who has no knowledge of the past has no wisdom.”

It’s a bit on the nose, but that’s the ultimate point. History is important, and we are all the sum of what came before. It’s an admirable thought, but it doesn’t make for gripping fiction without a strong narrative to lead us there.

No one was more surprised by my enjoyment of Claire Evans’ The Fourteenth Letter than me. It looked like the kind of book I would enjoy as a fun distraction, but nothing more. And I was sorely in need of a fun distraction.

The Fourteenth Letter opens with a grisly murder. What follows is an historical mystery with a classical twist, blending old world British Gothic with new world American ingenuity. It was a book about madness, privilege and eugenics, and while it didn’t keep me guessing through the whole reading experience, it definitely swept me along for the ride.

I was impressed with Evans’ characterisation. Her characters were deeply flawed, mysterious, but personable. Their experiences created a sense of real personal growth. The William Lamb of the end of the novel was virtually unrecognisable from the character we’d met at the beginning, but his growth and development were so natural that it really gave his character depth. Savannah Shelton, the American gunslinger as well, was introduced as a rough and hardened criminal. Even she proved to have real depth, while Evans’ masterfully omitted the details of her erstwhile crimes, leaving the reader to judge the character on her personality and deeds through the novel rather than her sordid past. The remaining heroes were appropriately heroic, with the generic good-guy police constable who served to move the plot at an even pace, and the villains were appropriately dark and menacing.

The pace, plotting and characterisation, however, were belied by The Fourteenth Letter’s title and branding. The cover is more evocative of a feminine gothic family saga/romance. There was nothing that screamed historical murder mystery. The titular ‘Fourteenth Letter’ as well, was introduced far too late in the plot for it to have any real impact or meaning. This was the book’s biggest letdown. The big reveal was hardly a reveal at all, as I hadn’t even known in was an option up until that point.

All in all The Fourteenth Letter was a strong entry into the historical crime genre. It was a fun read that was equal parts cliché and original that was just really, really enjoyable.

I’ve come quite late to the Mass Effect franchise. Despite it being my most recommended game series to date, I just never really felt the urge to pick it up. With such an extensive Steam back catalogue, and being primarily an MMO player there have always been other calls for my time. Being an adult sucks like that. But when I saw the launch trailer for Mass Effect Andromeda (the music supervisor for that trailer deserves a huge raise by the way) I was blown away and decided that I just had to play the series in preparation.

I’d tried Mass Effect 1 before, and while I enjoyed it, I found the Citadel quests a little monotonous, so when I stopped playing for a few days I just didn’t start it up again and promptly forgot about it. But with all the constant recommendations I decided that this time I was going to stick with it. And I was not sorry!

The overarching story is deep and immersive. The attention to detail is second to none. Walking past characters you can’t even interact with and listening to their conversations made the world seem real. It’s the joy and danger of truly immersive, interactive, player-driven storytelling. Commander Shepard wasn’t just a character I was playing. I was her. She was an extension of me. Her choices were my choices. I didn’t treat her as an object to move through the game. I treated her as an extension of myself. I refused to let myself restart missions for different outcomes. I committed to my choices having a lasting effect. Which is why the ending let me down so much.

Mass Effect 1 was a good game, but not a great one. The story was brilliant, and the way my Shepard created her own little family on the Normandy was exceptional, but the side quests and planet exploration were repetitive and clunky. The combat was enjoyable, and I liked speccing my character to suit my play style, but overall the game experience of ME1 didn’t blow me away. Still, the story kept me going for Mass Effect 2, which is where the series really started to come into its own.

My female Shepard had romanced Kaidan in ME1. The romance was a cute distraction at the time, but I didn’t feel any deep connection. It was masterful in ME2 that, despite Kaidan being only in a few minutes of the game it actually made me care about him in a way that the first game hadn’t. The storytelling and interactive dialogue really improved in ME2, and for the first time, I was invested in all the characters. Building a new team and creating a sense of loyalty in my crew gave them all depth. I’d briefly considered setting up a new romance in ME2, but when I met Kaidan on Horizon, his reaction to seeing me with Cerberus was so real and believable that I was pretty shocked.

That moment in ME2 on Horizon seemed to get a pretty negative reaction for Kaidan, but for me, it appeared to be a very real way to react. I was a little disappointed when he walked away from me in anger, but I understood, so I let my reaction to that filter into my conversations with other characters. I thought then that I could probably move on and try to romance someone else to get the full game experience, but every time I went into the Commander’s quarters I saw his picture there, the truth was that I as a person just couldn’t do that to Kaidan, especially after his apology message, so ultimately my Shepard just couldn’t either.

While the romance seemed a little gimmicky on paper, by Mass Effect 3 it had me completely immersed. It made me personally invested in the characters. They weren’t pixels on a screen. They were my friends and family. Everything my Shepard was doing wasn’t just to save the earth and a bunch of strange NPCs I’d never meet; they were to protect these people who had been with me from the beginning. That is why, when the ending came, at first I wasn’t too disappointed. Part of that reason for me was the fact that I was so hooked that I’d played all three games non-stop in less than a week. I played for full days, sometimes until 4 or 5 in the morning. I just couldn’t stop! I had to know what happened to these characters, and having my Shepard sacrifice herself for those who she loved made sense. It hit me right in the feels, but it didn’t feel wrong.

But, after the buzz of non-stop play and immersive story came to an end, and I had a chance to sit back and think about it, I found myself getting a little angry. The story up until that point had been masterful. It had an internal logic, but on closer inspection, the end just didn’t. It would have made sense to have all the existing options there as other players had made other decisions up until this point, but there was a fourth option that was what my Shepard had been building toward that the game simply didn’t address.

Every decision I’d made up until that point would have brought my Shepard to one, logical conclusion. Convincing the Crucible of the fallacy of his argument. The narrative and my decisions had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that the cycle could be broken. I’d negotiated peace between the Quarians and the Geth, and the Geth were helping rebuild Rannock, the Quarian homeworld. EDI was free to self-actualise and discover her individuality and was a valued member of my team. The inevitable ending that the Crucible had foreseen was not inevitable in my world. That should have been my ending. But instead, my Shepard’s decisions and choices were bastardised for shock value. And that’s what it felt like. So many hours that players spent investing in the character and their future ripped from them in a moment, thanks to a blatant plot twist for the sake of it.

I’m not going to lie, the franchise is still probably the best video game series I’ve played to date, and despite my disappointment at the ending, I can’t recommend it highly enough. The suicide mission of ME2 is probably the most immersive well developed final mission of any game I’ve ever played. Ever.

Mass Effect Andromeda has some pretty big shoes to fill, but I’m definitely excited to play it.

Virago Press are doing #BooksforChange for the month of March. Every day we get to share our most influential and favourite female writers and female characters. I can’t wait to see everyone else’s favourites and maybe discover some new books to read!

On day 1 of #BooksforChange, the book that made me feminist is without a doubt The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. That woman’s writing changed my life. She writes across genres in a way that just drew me in from such a young age. I devoured everything she’d written when I was in high school.